


rounded with a sleep

by cainight



Category: Berserk
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Pre-Eclipse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 03:41:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cainight/pseuds/cainight
Summary: The way Griffith looked at him, like he could poke a hole right through him, pick him apart and not hate a single thing he saw, had Guts wondering if maybe this was where he was meant to be, if this was what he'd been searching for.





	rounded with a sleep

It was cold enough that Guts had begun to fear for the safety of his fingers. Winter was rarely kind to mercenaries, who lived in the shelter of copses and flimsy fabric tents, and it took no pity on the Band of the Hawk. Not that it mattered much; the Hawks saw the freezing temperatures as just another excuse to get drunk, as they did most things. Guts could hear them, gathered around the fire and laughing while they sloshed wine on each other, as his legs carried him to the outskirts of the camp.

When he first came here, Guts steered clear of the Hawks, bound only to them by the fight he lost to Griffith. He’d warmed up to them eventually, but still, he felt this odd distance between them and him, a phantom gap he couldn’t fill. It was easier to keep to his own company, and easier still to stand aside and swing his sword. 

Even the one who’d brought him here eluded Guts’ reach, too preoccupied now with the dealings of the royal court to see his men on the ground. Since that night Guts had overheard Griffith talking to the princess, he couldn’t shake the feeling that, somewhere down the line, he’d misunderstood what his role was here. The Band of the Hawk was content merely to follow Griffith and aid in the actualization of his dream, but as Griffith said himself, they were little more than soldiers. If Guts, too, were only valuable to Griffith as an asset and not a friend…

“It’s a bit cold to be going out, isn’t it?”

The voice cut through Guts train of thought and he turned just as Griffith stepped out of his tent.

“Beats lying around waiting to freeze,” Guts replied, leaning against his sword. Griffith didn’t respond with words, only by opening the stiff flaps to his tents, tilting his head. Guts knew without being told that Griffith wanted him to come inside.

Once, Guts might have raised a brow at being invited into his superiors’ quarters, but this was not the first time Griffith had been so… friendly? Guts wasn’t sure how to describe Griffith’s recent change in attitude. The rest of the Hawks had always commented on how Griffith treated Guts like he was special - maybe Guts was only just now starting to see it himself.

By all measures, Griffith’s room was far nicer than Guts’. Griffith sat at his desk, covered with maps and important documents Guts was sure were so filled with jargon he’d get fed up a few sentences in, were he to try reading them. The bed was raised off the ground, lined with quilts and furs and down pillows, each layer laid crisp over the others as if Griffith had just made it. 

“What d'you need?” Guts asked. He couldn’t see any other reason why Griffith would call on him for a private meeting.

“Nothing in particular,” Griffith replied, spreading the flame from the oil lamp atop his desk to a pair of candles. Distractedly, Griffith rose and set them near the bed, rubbing the tallow grease from his fingers, “I’ve been so busy these past few weeks, there’s been no time for us to talk.”

Guts shrugged, “I don’t get all that dumb political bullshit, but if you have to do it, then you have to do it. Nothing personal, right?”

Griffith looked serious, more so than he usually did when they were alone together. The candle’s flames cast flickering reflections in his eyes, which bored into Guts’ own. “I suppose. I just don’t want you to have the wrong idea.”

Wrong idea about what? Him never being around anymore? Guts is at a loss for how to interpret that, but before he gets the chance to ask, Griffith has already lowered himself onto the bed beside Guts. Warmth seeped through the fabric of his pants where his thigh touched Guts’, and a violent shiver tears through Guts’ spine, rippling down his back and setting his hair on end. 

“You’re shaking,” Griffith pointed out, looking up at Guts through spindly lashes. “You should lie down - here, take my bed. I can’t have my best soldier falling ill, after all.”

Guts rolled his eyes at the praise, but when Griffith held his gaze unflinchingly, he realized the other wasn’t joking.

“What, seriously?” Guts raised his eyebrows incredulously, “you’re fucking with me, right? How many times have you seen someone stab me or shoot an arrow through me? A little ice and snow won't make me sick.”

Griffith frowned, eyes narrowing into slits, “I doubt you’ll want to hear me say ‘I told you so’ when you wake up tomorrow wheezing.”

“I won’t hear it at all because it’s not happening. And what’s also not happening is me letting you tuck me into your bed like a baby. Come on, I shouldn’t have to tell you how weird that is.”

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“It’s not that, it’s just-”

“So you’re comfortable with it, then?” Griffith had him pinned with the force of his stare, and Guts couldn’t look away, or he’d feel like he'd lost. If this was even the sort of thing that could be won or lost in the first place.

“You know damn well what I mean,” he grumbled.

“Do I?” 

The counterfeit air of innocence that accompanied those words had Guts rising to his feet with a scowl, sword swung over his shoulder. Griffith’s act dissolved as Guts stormed off, into the din of the drunken Hawks.

“Guts, wait.”

"What?”

Griffith said nothing, just sat on the bed watching Guts, face impossible to read. Then, Griffith patted the space beside him. Once more, Guts knew what was meant without hearing the words out loud. 

Guts sighed, turning back and slumping down, arms crossed over his chest. Why did he always do what Griffith wanted him to? It seemed more instinctual than a choice at this point. When Griffith pushed him backwards again, he didn't resist. Truth be told, he was curious to see just what Griffith was getting at with all this. 

While Guts attempted to get his neck on the pile of pillows, Griffith knelt down, working the worn leather boots from Guts feet. 

"Uh..." Guts trailed off, apprehension marring his features.

"It's okay," Griffith soothed, voice imbued with the softness one might use when taming a wild animal. When the second boot fell to the floor with a thump, Griffith moved over to the desk, and Guts thought that was the end of it, that Griffith would return to his work while Guts lay there awkwardly. He couldn't be more wrong.

Griffith shrugged the coat off his shoulders, casting it haphazardly over the back of his chair, then reached up to pull the ribbon holding his hair up. Ashen curls tumbled over Griffith's pale neck, and Guts' chest tightened. For a commander of the most formidable mercenary group in all of Midland, Griffith appeared deceivingly gentle - the slimness of his shoulders, the delicate curve of his hips as he bent to un-tuck his tunic, and the tranquil, mild lines of his posture seeming more fit for a prince than a man at arms. It was no mystery how he managed to blend in with the nobles when he looked so much like one himself.

"Would you mind moving over?" Griffith asked, lifting up the covers and slipping into bed beside Guts.

"If you wanna sleep, I can leave..." Guts trailed off, staring at the ceiling fastidiously to avoid Griffith's gaze. 

"I never said that," Griffith seemed keen on getting Guts' attention, propping himself up on his elbow so he was hovering over Guts' face. Guts could feel the soft puffs of air from Griffith's lips on his own. There was a magnetic pull drawing Guts closer, and his heart was beating against his rib cage like a war drum. Time froze around him and he could do nothing but wait, watching Griffith watch him.

The spell was broken when Griffith laid his head on Guts' chest, an arm snaking over Guts' stomach. Guts went rigid, completely unresponsive, a tinge of alarm peppering his voice as he asked, "What's all this about? I don't get it."

"It's quite common, really," Griffith said, voice muffled in the fabric of Guts' shirt, "soldiers warm each other on the battlefield all the time. I had Casca do this when I first found you."

"Yeah, well, Casca's-"

"A woman? I struggle to see what difference that makes."

Guts couldn't think of an argument for that which Griffith wouldn't shoot down immediately. "Still, this kinda thing is weird coming from you. Something wrong?" 

Griffith sighed, perhaps irritably or fondly, Guts couldn't tell. "I'm fine. Does something need to be wrong for me to want to do this?"

That phrasing reminded Guts of what Griffith said after they fought Zodd - did he need a reason to put himself in harm's way for Guts' sake? - and the comparison ignited the dawning of a realization in his mind that he desperately wanted to dismiss.

"... No. I guess not," Guts answered. "It's just us here, anyway."

Griffith smiled, reaching his fingers up to cup Guts' cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking down the line of Guts' jaw. This isn't the first time Griffith's held his face, and it wasn't the first time they've shared this closeness, but it feels different. It was easy to clap a hand on Griffith's shoulder after a victory. This wasn't easy.

A few moments passed in which the world seemed perilously quiet, and all Guts can hear is the sound of his own breathing, mingling with Griffith's. Guts wrestled his arm out from underneath Griffith, where it had begun to fall asleep and, mirroring Griffith's hold on him, wrapped his now free arm around Griffith's waist.

Upon horseback or swaddled in the bulk of his armour, Griffith appeared larger than life - some even fashioned him a mythological being, the White Hawk who reigned impervious in battle. In Guts' arms, he felt small.

"I've missed you," Griffith all but whispered, his fingers dragging down Guts' throat, and Guts gulped so loud he swore the whole camp must have been able to hear it. "I'm finally making progress, getting closer to where I want to be, and yet... sometimes, I wish to return to when things were simpler. All of these councils, the meetings, the diplomacy - it's a stepping stone all the same, but it lacks the feeling that war has. That fighting alongside you has."

"Isn't that what you want? Doing all that stuff? Isn't that why you wanna be king?"

"No, that's merely a byproduct of the position. Things like affluence, conquest, jurisdiction - they're all byproducts, too. What I truly desire is power, and the power to make change," Griffith's tone was steeped in purpose. "My kingdom will be one where class, rank, and social standing are rendered obsolete. Everyone will have their place, and none shall have to suffer."

"Sounds nice," Guts said, "sounds noble of you."

"And you? What is it you want?"

Guts' eyebrows furrowed. It was a question he'd been asking himself for months now since the night he and Casca had listened to Griffith's speech at Promrose Hall.

"I... I dunno," he stuttered, acutely aware of Griffith's eyes on him, "ever since I was a kid, I've been wandering around, killing for the sake of killing, and nothing more. I'm not like you, I don't have a dream or a goal I'm working toward. All I can do - all I've ever been good at - is just this." 

When Guts looked down at Griffith to gauge his reaction, instead of the contempt or disappointment he expected, all he could see on Griffith's face was concern. "The others, they've got plans for when this is over. Guess I won't be much use once you've got your kingdom, huh? I'll have to find someone elses dream to fight for... or find my own."

"I'll always have a place for you, Guts. I told you before, didn't I? All of my strategies are devised with you in mind. If you become restless simply staying by my side once I'm king, I'll find you something to do. I'll give you whatever you need." His fingers traced along Guts' clavicle, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "You're valuable to me for more than your skill as a swordsman."

Guts couldn't tell if Griffith was lying. He had no reason to, but Guts, who'd never been afforded such attention or support from another in all his short, miserable life, found it hard to believe Griffith would promise such things to him. 

A shaky exhale left Guts, "Okay." His hand drifted up from Griffith's waist to twist a loose ringlet behind his ear. Griffith's eyes widened, then narrowed warmly as he turned to the side, his cheek rubbing against Guts' palm as his own hand came up to hold Guts'. His lips pressed against Guts' wrist, at the junction where the veins met and dispersed. Guts couldn't even breathe. The way Griffith looked at him, like he could poke a hole right through him, pick him apart and not hate a single thing he saw, had Guts wondering if maybe this was where he was meant to be, if this was what he'd been searching for. 

Guts' fingers carded through Griffith's hair, down to the nape of his neck. He kneaded the tired muscle there, watching as Griffith's eyes fluttered shut and he melted into Guts. 

Griffith cut an imposing figure against the battlefield, his brooding face and command impossible to ignore. Here, hidden away from the world and all the conjectures it was heir to, he instead became soft and malleable. Griffith pressed his face into Guts' neck, and Guts let his eyes close as well. 

If there was ever a point in time where Guts considered leaving, it was lost to him now.

**Author's Note:**

> lmao fluff?? in MY fanfic??? its more likely than u think


End file.
